Who Is Peeta Mellark?
by heartbrokenhappiness
Summary: "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces," -Mockingjay, page 271.   Peeta returns to District 12 after the rebellion and must rediscover himself
1. You're a Painter

_"You're a painter."_

I'm jolted awake by the screech of the train. I push my hair out of my eyes only to find it soaked with sweat. I blink rapidly, trying to shake the image of a boy's - or was it a man's? - body being ripped to shreds by wild dogs out of my mind. I sit up straight in my booth as the train slows down, coming to a stop.

Maybe it's a good thing these nightmares are coming back. Maybe it means my memories are returning, seeping into my subconscious. As I get up and retrieve my single bag from the compartment above me, realization floods back. I had asked Finnick about it a few weeks ago, after I'd had the very same nightmare. _Real,_ I think to myself. The boy was Cato, a tribute from 2. He was in the Hunger Games with Katniss and I. He was the last one who died before we "won."

Yes, it's all back to me now. The screams. The howls. Not knowing which belonged to man or mutt. Sometimes it's like this, with the nightmares. I can't place it for a few minutes after I wake up. It just adds to the confusion.

I step off the platform of the train and into the darkness of District 12. It must be midnight or nearly close to it. I don't know why I know this.

"Over here," comes a gruff voice. I can't see him, but I know it has to be Haymitch. Who else would meet me at the station? There's no one left to.

"Haymitch?" I ask anyway. His answer will give me a place to walk to so I don't fall and hurt myself in the pitch-blackness of the night.

_Ouch._ A bright light shines in my face, Haymitch right behind it. "Let's get you home, boy."

"Why are you here? Did the Capitol pay you to come?" The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. I wince after I say it, because it reminds me so much of myself in 13. It wasn't a fun place.

Haymitch looks like he wants to smack me upside the head, but he restrains himself. "I'm not getting paid to do anything. I'm here because it would be a disaster to have you stumbling back to the Victor's Village at midnight. Now let's get a move on."

We walk in silence for barely a minute before I'm asking questions again. "Is anyone else here?"

"In the district? Very few. There's us in the Village. And there's a few from the Seam. That's it."

"Do you think they'll ever come back?"

"Oh, yes. Give them time. No one but a native could last in Thirteen for long."

I have to agree with him there. "She hasn't spoken to the doctor at all, you know," I say after another minute or two.

"No, I wouldn't know. Been too busy getting reacquainted with the bottle."

Every time Haymitch says or does something inflammatory, I think that I can't ever get any more upset with him than I am in that moment. But this time I know I'll never be more upset with him than right now. It takes all of the - admittedly small - willpower I have not to shove him roughly to the side. "So you mean she's all shut up in _that_ house while you're drinking to your heart's content? What are you thinking? She could be dead for all you know, she could be…" I start to run towards where I think the street might be. I had taken the Nightlock from her, right? Right? It doesn't matter, she could've found a million more ways to off herself. I start screaming as I run, and the next thing I know, the wind's knocked out of me as I thud to the ground.

"What're you doin'?" Haymitch looms over me, his lantern swinging in his hand. He looks furious. "Of course I didn't leave her to die, boy! She has someone checking on her twice a day, what do you think I am, stupid?"

I get up, rubbing my head. I'll have a lump the size of an egg tomorrow morning. "What was I supposed to think? You taking her home, supposed to make sure she's all right, and then you lock yourself up in your house? You can't pass responsibilities like that off to someone else, that's just…She could be dead, Haymitch! She…why…Katniss…arrow…nest…tree…arena…"

I hear the steady beat of a knife sliding back and forth on a branch…Katniss is sawing the tracker jackers' nest off the tree, she's trying to kill me and the others…

_Not real!_

I see the nest fall in slow motion, catching in a branch before it plummets down to the ground…Katniss is thrashing in the tree, trying to make it fall as fast as it can…

_Not real!_

I feel the first insect land on me, plunge its stinger deep into my arm…there's a warbled sound in the distance, it must be Katniss laughing and bragging to her evil allies how she's managed to knock out a handful of Careers in one blow…

_Not real!_

I smell the blood of the others on my hands, crawling towards my face. Or maybe it's my blood. Or maybe it's coming from my face. Katniss is leaping from tree to tree, shooting arrows at us every chance she gets…

_Not real!_

I taste the metallic venom of the tracker jackers as they fill my mouth and then pour out of every other crevice in my face. They're buzzing so loudly my eardrums must have burst by now…Katniss is pouring more onto me by the bucketful…She's laughing and taunting me every chance she gets and she soon begins to scream and rage…

_Not real! Not real! Not real!_

I look at my surroundings and find myself on the ground in District 12 again. I'm soaking wet with both my own sweat and water from the nearby well. Haymitch is standing over me and he pours another load of the water onto my face, all the while yelling, "Get out of it, Peeta! It's not real!"

I blink and start shaking all over. I hadn't had an episode that strong in days. They had usually subsided to a few bursts of fake, shining memories. This one…some of it wasn't even shiny. Katniss _had_ cut the nest. _Real._ But she hadn't meant to kill _me._ _Not real._

Haymitch sees that I've snapped out of it, drops the now empty bucket, and gives me a hand to stand back up. I'm hacking a horrible cough, water having gotten into my lungs. He thumps me on the back.

"Sorry about that," I mutter under my breath.

"It's not you who should be apologizing," he answers.

I look at him. He can't mean Katniss?

"The Capitol! Snow!" he hollers frantically.

I nod. We walk in silence for a few more minutes until we round the bend, coming onto the Victor's Village main street. I walk up to my front porch and turn to Haymitch. "Make sure she's okay, will you? And call me. Please."

He grumbles assent.

I turn and try the doorknob, knowing that it'll be unlocked. It is. I step into my house and am overwhelmed by an insanely familiar smell…It isn't just one thing. It's so many scents woven into each other from the past year of being untouched and I can't even possibly pick them all out now. Maybe I never will be able to again. But it's calm.

I see a box of tapes by the television. Those must be from before the Quarter Quell, when I'd had Effie send them so the three of us could train. It surprises me how easily this recall comes.

I step upstairs, hardly daring to put any weight on the steps. It all feels so fragile, like a ghost. It seems as if I've never been here in my life but at the same time like I've never known any place better.

The door on my immediate right is open and I step in. I'm instantly taken aback by the sheer amount of red in the room. It's filled with canvases, pieces of wood, and scattered sheets of paper. All of them depict a violent act - they must be from the games.

I step up to one and touch it, feeling the grooves and ridges of the paint and canvas beneath my fingers. It's my hand in the picture, holding a short knife. There's a girl underneath the knife, her throat torn open and its insides scattered on the ground around her and my hand. The way the muscles in my hand are painted can only mean that I'm about to stab her.

I fall back, bumping into another canvas. There's no mistaking the girl in this picture. Its' Katniss. She's strewn across a hard stone floor, her hair halfway between being tangled into a mass beyond repair and floating serenely around her head. I can tell she's unconscious. She has a bandage across her forehead, so soaked red that I can't tell what color it originally was. I'll probably never remember it. This room suddenly feels so disgusting. Infuriating. As if on cue, the phone rings and I dash to my bedroom to pick it up.

"She's asleep in her rocking chair, Peeta," Haymitch's annoyed voice comes through the speaker.

"Thanks," I mumble, relieved. Haymitch hangs up without saying another word.

When I put down the phone, I'm overcome with tremors and I realize just how tired I am. I sit on my bed, trying to calm down. If I can't regulate my body and breathing soon, I'll have another episode. At least I can see them coming now.

After a few seconds my hands go still. My breath is steady and the beads of sweat that popped up on my forehead are drying. There's something about being back here, back home - such a foreign word-that keeps me a bit more sane than usual. I lie down, still in my clothes from the Capitol, and close my eyes.

I wait five minutes. I wait ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. I can't sleep. My mind and body are still calm, but they're restless and twitchy as well.

I turn the light on a bit so I can see but not burn my eyes out and open the closet. I find paints, canvases, and brushes galore. I must have had so many supplies that even a full room for them wasn't enough.

Slowly, carefully, I open a paint bottle and sniff it. It's still fresh and the scent brings the same feelings that opening up the front door did with it.

I lay out a few bottles of paint, a canvas, and a few brushes on the floor of the closet and start painting. I don't know what it'll result it, but I find myself mulling over recent memories. Ones that aren't from the Hunger Games.

I pick up a bottle of gray paint and consider adding a touch of 13 into the painting. I throw the bottle aside, deciding that 13 is too drab to be able to turn out well in a painting. I need something vibrant and full of life.

_Or,_ I think, _something completely void of life._ Like my paintings and portraits in the other room. I pour drops of yellow and orange and red and blue onto a palette next to the canvas. I use every stroke known in my memory.

I am amazed at how quickly the skill comes back to me. I suppose it's like the cake. You can't really unlearn something so ingrained into you for long.

I don't know how much time passes, but when I run out of room on the canvas, I look up and see the faintest rays of sunlight streaming in from the window in the room across the hall. I roll back on my heels, grabbing a towel strewn across the floor and wiping my face and hands with it. I look at the painting in the dim lighting and see swirls of color and life and beauty. Upon closer look, I can see that the colors mesh together in the most perfect ways, forming a scene.

In the upper left corner of the canvas, there's a young girl surrounded by yellow. Her hair is of the same color, although it's a different shade. Her skin is white as snow. She's laughing and smiling at the person opposite her, another girl. This child is the mirror opposite of the first - deep brown hair and slightly lighter skin. They appear to be interacting like old friends.

_Prim. And Rue._ They're sitting on a cloud, looking at the world below them. It's a happy world, with fresh new buildings and flowers and sunlight. In the bottom right corner is a woman, strong and stoic. She doesn't look happy, but she isn't wearing a frown, either. It's Katniss. She seems content, in the recovered District 12. No one but the three of them is present.

I think she'd like it. But not now. Maybe after we're a bit more accustomed to life here again I'll give it to her or at least show her. She'd like to see Prim and Rue being friends.

Maybe I'll knock on her door later today. In the evening. I don't know if she wants to see me, though, or even if she wants me here. I don't really care, though. I have no where else to go-District 12 is my home. I think she'll come around when she can live again.

I need to get up and do something. I didn't have even the beginnings of an episode when I was painting.

I stand and catch another glimpse of the painting. I see that rose bushes have worked their way into it, as well. Primroses.

* * *

><p><strong>Do you think I got Peeta right? I wanted to capture him post-hijacking and still show how he cared about Katniss, if not the same way he did before.<strong>

**Thanks for reading. :)**


	2. You're a Baker

_"You're a baker."_

I turn the tap, water creaking out of it. It's a bit rusty, being a year out of any use at all. But it's water, and I've been without it too much to complain about its current state.

It's cold. It washes the dirt and cuts off of my delicate skin. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to start a brand new garden when recovering from such severe burns. I don't mind the pain, I just hope it'll heal someday so I don't have to worry about shredding my skin every time I pick something up.

I don't bleed now, though - I just rub my pink hands a little raw. No harm done.

My mind is clear this morning. I was thinking _clearly_ the night I got in, yes, but I've got a grasp on my situation now. Out digging up primrose bushes in the edges of the woods, I scoped out what I could of District 12. They've torn the Meadow up, turning it into a graveyard. A few buildings in the Seam are already rebuilt, though I don't suppose it took much to do that.

I admire the will of my people.

And then I think to Katniss. I can't even begin to describe her appearance. She's worse off than she was in what I can remember of our first Games. Her _appearance_ doesn't matter, of course. No more cameras to spy on her every move. What troubles me are the actions that led to that appearance.

She's not healthy. She's alive, like Haymitch said, but not by much.

And I'm worried. I can't articulate exactly why, though I should be able to, but Katniss worries me. Like last night when I started sprinting towards her house. Or a few months ago when I pushed and shoved my way through a frantic throng of people in record time to stop her from swallowing death.

Of course, when I step outside of my mind and look at it, the answer is clear. I love Katniss. Isn't that what everyone tells me? What she tells me, what even Gale tells me? The tapes and pictures and everything. And then I'll remember how we were in District 13 and this feeling of dread and regret surfaces in me. How every word that came out of my mouth was a lie, but then the way she would look at me like what I was saying was exactly the truth. How I had to relearn her. How she had to, in the Capitol, live around someone who looked like me and acted like me some of the time but apparently wasn't "me."

And it doesn't feel right to come out and say the reason why I care so much about her well-being right now is because I love her. She's not the Katniss she was before the Hunger Games, or even before the Quell. And I'm clearly not the Peeta I was before the Quell. So we've both changed, but maybe in different ways. Or maybe not so different.

It makes sense to use the explanation Katniss did, though, when she was afraid of saying she loved me. _"Because that's what you and I do. Protect each other."_

Since Haymitch clearly isn't protecting her, I have to. But I'd do it even if it wasn't necessary.

My hands go numb from being under the frigid water for so long. I shake them out and turn off the tap, turning to face the rest of the kitchen. I caught a glimpse of it last night, but with the lights on it brings another wave of feelings.

Baking reminds me of my family. I was pulled over by someone earlier on my way to the woods, and after a long minute of him droning on about how happy he was to see me back in 12 - I didn't recognize him at all, and I'm not sure if I ever did know him - he told me that, going through the ruins of where the bakery used to be in town, they didn't find a single body. My parents must have been out at the time of the bombing and no one could identify my brothers' houses among the ruins.

So I'll never know where they are in the Meadow and I'll never get the chance to give them their own, private burials. I've tried to avoid dwelling on it, and it's been easier than I'd have thought. I guess I already mourned them in 13 with Delly.

Baking also brings that familiar scent. The scent of somewhat steadiness, of the constant run of life. Or at least as constant a life as I'd ever had here after the Games. But it's reassuring.

And all of a sudden, I'm rather hungry. I start poking around through the cupboards, but a quick glimpse at my hands, not only pink but glistening with a fresh wave of blood popping up under my skin, decides against trying any baking today. I grab a handful of paper towels and wrap them around my hands.

I don't know what to do with myself. My hands got a little scuffed up last night, and this morning I saw dots of blood here and there on the painting, but digging around the dirt with shovels for hours, not to mention the endless thorns poking out of the stems of the flowers, did quite a bit of damage.

I grab an unopened box of crackers from the counter and go into the living room to sit in the rocking chair. I empty the box within minutes and just sit there, my mind blank, rocking back and forth for who knows how long. I think I drift off to sleep for a few minutes at a time, but I'm always shocked back awake from gory, unidentifiable images appearing right behind my eyelids.

I'm about to doze off again when I hear a loud banging at the door.

"Come in," I shout, feeling irritable and on edge for no reason. I really don't care who it is.

Haymitch. Why the hell is Haymitch at my door? He's supposed to be drunk and passed out on his kitchen floor, knife in hand.

I hear him open and slam the door shut. His feet shuffle in. "At least you're in decent condition. How'd the night go?"

My head springs up and I'm shaken out of my hate-induced reverie. It was the beginning of an attack, I can feel it. But taking in Haymitch, who, despite smelling quite a bit and his clothes slightly resembling rags, looks just the same as usual, seems to be what snaps me out of it. Why the hell _is_ he here? He knows I'm capable of taking care of myself. Did he even _see_ Katniss when he went to check on her last night? She looks horrible. She needs all the help she can get.

I might not be on the verge of insanity for the moment, but I'm still angry. "I'm fine, as you can see. Why don't you go take a look next door and spend the precious time that you're sober with someone who actually needs it?"

"Damn it, boy, what does it take to get this through to you?" He stomps towards me and grabs my shoulders, spraying spit and who knows what onto my face. "She's okay! She's not going to die anytime soon! If she'd wanted to, she'd have offed herself weeks ago!" Panting, he releases me, and I fall back onto the corner of a table, sending a sharp ache through my side.

Haymitch stares at me for a few seconds, anger and frustration glaring in his eyes. "What did you expect, that you'd come home and she'd be off killing rabbits and squirrels happy as can be every day, same as always?" he says just as loud but not quite so menacingly. "This is as good as she's gonna get for a while. There's _nothing_ I can do to make it better, Peeta. _You_ need attention more than her. Just as I walked in here you were about to hurt yourself or someone else, weren't you?"

I don't answer him, but he doesn't expect one. He sits on the couch and puts his head between his knees, probably to stop whatever food he just ate from coming back up again.

"You're not okay yet. You'll never be okay. None of us will ever be okay. I'm here to make sure you don't go on any homicidal rampages, because when I grab a spare moment to check out my priorities, that's higher on the list than a girl who's barely touched the tip of the iceberg of healing. Keep 'em in line."

Haymitch stands, looks as if he's about to fall and snap the coffee table right in two, but sets himself straight and heads to the door. "Call someone if you need something. I don't know who, but you might be able to hit zero on the phone and find the number of someone who can help or call for help. Don't count on me for at least another day or so."

He's got his hand on the doorknob now. He turns it and pushes and a burst of hot, disgusting air comes rushing at me. "So before you ask, no, I'm not going over there now. I've got no business over there. Whatever I tell her goes in one ear and out the other. But hey, you got her outside today. I can't do anything, but you still can. Just don't go crazy."

He leaves and the door slams shut behind him.

I really hate that guy sometimes. I don't care if he's partially right. I hate him.

And it's because I need someone to hate. Because this isn't _fair_. And there's no one around for me to hate but Haymitch. So he gets the honors.

I sit back into the chair and sleep in fits of ten, maybe twenty minutes, throughout the night.

It must be forever ingrained in me, or something. Being a baker. Because I'm up just after the crack of dawn, wide awake, despite my relatively sleepless night before.

I'm hungry again and I want real food. I step into the kitchen and turn the tap again. The water isn't so disgusting this time. My hands are a bit more healed than they were yesterday, no longer leaking blood and scabbing a bit. They're rough - nothing like they used to be. They're stiff. I crack my knuckles and dry my hands with a nearby towel.

I look through the cupboards again and find myself taking out bags of flour, sugar, nuts, yeast, everything I can get my hands on. I even find eggs and milk in the fridge - I guess Greasy Sae must have brought them over a few days ago.

I'm filled with the same feelings I was when I rediscovered all of my painting supplies. I've got another kind of palette in front of me now.

Everything's in relatively good condition, considering. It's all definitely edible.

The oven's heated. The counters are scrubbed down. The ingredients are measured. The pans are greased.

I'm stirring everything together, and it's therapeutic again. It's reassuring. I don't think of anything while I'm doing it all, just going through the motions. As with painting, I could never forget them.

And before I know it, I've got a loaf in the oven. The house smells nice. It's not like it was when I first came in - it's not just like an ancient museum now, it's alive again. It's mingling with the smells of the paint that I can still detect from my room, and it's more soothing than anything I've ever experienced in my life. I didn't think that was possible.

I'm starving, but when the bread's out and cooled I don't shove it into my mouth. I wash and dry my hands ever so carefully, so as not to get them bleeding again after the manual labor. I take a few extra paper towels and wrap the bread, warm but not searing, in them.

And I'm not freaking out, because it seems like the natural thing to do. I didn't forget how to bake bread - I could never do that. So of course I won't forget what to do with the bread. It's second nature.

* * *

><p><strong>Again, thoughts are always welcome. :) This time I'm a bit worried about Haymitch, though. I wanted to make it obvious he cared about Peeta (more so than Katniss, which is what I got in MJ) without outrightly stating it.<strong>

**Muchas gracias. :D**


	3. You Like to Sleep With the Windows Open

"_You like to sleep with the windows open."_

Time passes. I don't keep track because it isn't necessary, all I notice is that it's still spring, but summer must be just around the corner. I fall into a routine. I bake. I paint. Most days I work in the garden at Katniss's, and she'll join me sometimes. We don't talk, we just work side by side, pruning and weeding and watering. Her mood fluctuates - her patterns on working don't rely on whether she's having a good or bad day. Maybe she comes when she wants to feel closer to Prim. Even Buttercup, mewling like a baby, joins us sometimes.

The sun's hotter than usual today. I eventually relent to it and douse myself with the hose. My skin's almost fully healed now - the scars are still there, but the pain isn't. I twist the hose, clamping the flow of water, and offer it to Katniss. She shakes her head no and continues packing the dirt around a new primrose bush. I drop the hose into another.

I don't know what I expect from her. But it seems the only thing she accepts from me is the bread. I'm trying to be friends with her. I'm beginning to recover memories, bit by bit, moment by moment, on my own now - they come out of nowhere sometimes, and I've got no doubt they're real. I'll ask anyway.

Sometimes, though, I can't tell if Katniss wants my friendship. I don't think we've talked to each other once just for the sake of talking. Most of our verbal interaction is comprised of the phrases "Thank you" and "You're welcome." If others are present - Greasy Sae and her granddaughter, and Haymitch, on very rare occasion - we'll say "Please pass the butter." But then it's not exactly directed to each other in particular, anyway.

I'll go into town sometimes, check on the progress. It's slow, tedious, and painful. I can't imagine what the workers are feeling. I know some people from other districts have come in to help with it recently, so it's starting to move along. I don't think Katniss has left the confines of her yard ever since the day I saw her ride home on Thom's cart.

One morning, after I've just rinsed out and dried my paint brushes from last night's canvas-splattering spree, the phone rings. I pick it up, hoping it's Haymitch to tell me the train's in. I'm nearly out of paints and he's nearly out of liquor, so it'd be a win-win situation for both of us.

I greet the person on the other end with nothing but a "hello," and whoever it is answers with an insane amount of verve. "Peeta Mellark?" they ask. "You sound so well, my boy! I didn't expect you to be the one answering."

Then it dawns on me. Plutarch Heavensbee. What's he calling me for? "It is my house, Plutarch."

"Well, one never knows who's at whose house nowadays, now do they? I was actually calling with the hopes of Miss Everdeen being there. Is she in?"

At her own house, fool. "Um, no." And I'm sure that it would be greatly appreciated if you'd just leave all of us alone. We've had enough Capitol to last more than one lifetime.

"Ah, well, perhaps you can pass on a message to her for me. She's not answering her own telephone."

I wonder why.

He continues, "On the ride back to Twelve, I mentioned a new singing program I'm launching. Would she still be interested in participating in it? If she'll just call me back…"

"Yes, I'll tell her to do that. Thank you for the call, Plutarch, I hope all is going well."

And I hang up before he can say anything else. Singing program? On television. I can't fathom why Katniss would want to be on television again. And if she hasn't taken the initiative to call him or answer his calls, I'll just assume that she can't fathom why, either. Let it be.

I manage to get a few loaves of bread in and out of the oven before the phone rings again. Thankfully, this time it's Haymitch. He doesn't sound happy, but he hasn't once since we've been…back. Not that he ever did much, anyway. "Train's about to come in. Thought you'd like to know, because I'm not hauling your cans of glop back with me."

"Didn't expect you to," I reply and then hang up.

I wrap a loaf in paper towels to take next door and set another at the edge of the counter, ready to give to Haymitch when we get back. I keep him stocked in bread because, first of all, there'd be too much for Katniss and I to eat if I didn't and I don't want to start up a bakery now. Maybe not ever. But I do want to bake, because it keeps my hands and mind busy. Secondly, if I didn't give him bread and other baked things, and if Katniss didn't give him part of her haul, he'd be boiling the cabbage that miraculously, with no help of its own, grows in his backyard and living solely off of that. I don't exactly trust food grown in Haymitch's yard, given all that gets dumped in it daily.

I step outside and avert my eyes from the blinding sunlight. I knock on the door when I reach Katniss's and wait a minute or two. Sometimes she opens it, sometimes she doesn't. I'd wait longer, but the train's probably already in and I don't know long it'll be here. I set the bread on the chair by her door and make my way to town.

It's like we're living in our own little world, Haymitch, Katniss, and I. Sae makes an appearance at least once a day, but I feel a bit detached from her. She's Katniss's, and maybe Haymitch's, but not mine.

So, most of the time, it's like only we three exist. I don't know if I could handle any more people in my life at this point. No one else would be of any use or help - and if they were, they're either dead or dealing with their own demons.

Making that right onto the main road leading into town is like entering another land, then. One where time passes at a relatively normal pace and life goes on. I don't welcome the feeling often, and I doubt Haymitch does, either. Katniss wouldn't know it.

I see him a few yards ahead of me, walking with his head down and arms crossed. "Wait up!" I call, but of course he doesn't. I jog to meet him.

Most of our conversations revolve around either the train or bread or, on very rare occasion, Katniss. Neither of us has much else to say. "I've got bread on the counter."

"And there's liquor on the train, so I guess we're both happy."

"Happy" is basically a joke. It lost its actual meaning a long time ago.

We walk in silence for the next twenty minutes, when we make it to the station just in time. But it's not like they'd leave without us picking our things up, anyway. Haymitch grabs all that he can carry and shoves a few bottles into my hands, which are already full with tubes of paint and bundles of canvas. I'm handed two letters by the man unloading the train - they're both for Katniss.

We walk back home in more silence, save for the clinking of the bottles. Haymitch is nearly through with one of them by the time he staggers up his front steps. I go inside my own house, put down my things, and grab the still-warm loaf from where I'd placed it on the counter.

Haymitch gets his liquor and bread, and I slip the letters under Katniss's door. It crosses my mind how I'm the one doing the running around. It's not that I mind it. I'd rather be dropping things off at everyone's doors all hours of the day than having them go without. But for a moment, from an outsider's perspective, I allow myself to see how odd these arrangements are. Haymitch is living the same life he's lived for over twenty-five years. Katniss is still adjusting, but she's been here longer than me. And she's functioning. Going out into the woods for hours on end every day.

Haymitch just sits in his house doing nothing all day. Come to think of it, he'd probably be dead if I didn't feed him and air out his house. There's no way in hell I'm cleaning it, though.

Katniss could get on fine without me - why doesn't she? Why doesn't she march right up to my front door and say, "Peeta, it's not your job to baby me. Get on with your own life and quit worrying about Haymitch and I, we pathetic little Victors."

It'd be blunt, but that's how Katniss is. Blunt. Like a knife that doesn't kill you right away. That doesn't put you out of your misery. It lets you suffer, writhing and screaming out in pain, as it hacks off every last bit of you with its dull blade. That's what Katniss did to me. She sawed away at me, until there was nothing but this obedient, Avox-like shell of a man, having her way and shunning me at the same time.

She's a mutt. A damned mutt, and if she had her way I'd be one, too. Doing her bidding at the snap of her hands. But that's what I do now, isn't it? No more. I won't take this anymore. I'm going to go up to her right now, and if she isn't home, then I'll just have to venture into the forest. I'll find her, scream at her, and if she puts up a fight, then I'll be damned if she's the one who survives it. And everyone will know who Katniss Everdeen really was. She was a mutt, a mass murderer of her people, she was -

_Damn it. _I'm lying flat on my back in the middle of the street, the sun scorching my newly-soaked face. Haymitch is standing over me, just like he did when I first came back to 12. He's not as drunk as he led me to believe just a few minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours. I can never tell how much time passes during those "episodes," as Doctor Aurelius has taken to calling them. "Thanks for the bread," he says as he helps me up.

"Was it that bad?"

"Nah. You were only raving and screaming for about five minutes, maybe seven, tops," he answers. "Somethin' about being an Avox."

I laugh bitterly. "Thanks, Haymitch."

"No problem. If you need anything, it's probably best to call Sae for the next few days."

"Sure, Haymitch," I say as I make my way into my house.

* * *

><p>It's stuffy. It's probably nearly 3 AM and I haven't been able to keep my eyes closed once. I've felt on the verge of more than one attack and barely been able to fend them off. I think of my attack earlier today. Or yesterday, I suppose. I hate it when they're like that. Kind of mirroring my life in a way. They're less shiny than most, and it's harder to snap out of them unless Haymitch is there with a lukewarm bucket of water, which isn't always the case.<p>

Because it's true. I run back and forth while they don't. But I think it's because I'm more of a blank slate than them. Katniss and Haymitch remember everything clear as day, while my memories are fuzzy and shiny and every other adjective out there. Only a few are pristine and clean. Getting out helps with the attacks, too. I could never wallow in the house all day, the air stagnant and untouched around me. I guess I just heal differently.

I stand up slowly, getting dizzy when I do so.

I make my way over to the window, over in the far right corner of my room. I shove it open and let the night air rush in. It's not cool by any means, but at least it's fresher than the air in here. I wish I'd thought of this weeks ago. Or maybe months. Or maybe days. Whenever.

Back in bed, I hope I can drift off. But it isn't more than five minutes in when I hear it coming. The scream. For at least thirty seconds, it's a steady stream of a tortured, hoarse voice. I've never heard it before, but then again I've never slept with the windows open before.

I know who it is. It's Katniss, screaming her voice dry from nightmares. It'd been brought up between us more than a few times when we were in the Capitol. I feel really, really stupid all of a sudden. She hasn't had one night's full sleep since before the Quell, that I'm sure of. And I've been laying here, keeping to myself every night. I think I slept better when I was with her, too.

Without thinking, I slip on the nearest pair of shoes I can find and the robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door. I walk down the stairs and out the door like a zombie, barely registering anything but the light breeze that floats by me when I awkwardly step through the grass over to Katniss's house.

And then I have my hand at the doorknob, feeling stupid once more. It's locked, of course, which brings me back to my senses. Who in their right mind would leave their house unlocked in the middle of the night? Not even me. Old habits die hard. And what am I thinking, trying to barge in on Katniss in the middle of the night? She'd probably be scared to death, thinking I'm in a trance-like episode, trying to kill her.

But then I hear her scream again, and I think that it might be worse to leave her like that than to knock on the door. So I do. I grasp the bronze knocker that's at my eye-level and I rap it against the hard wood of the door a few times. The scream stops, and I hear the gentle padding of feet against the floor. So much more graceful than the heavy stomp of my prosthetic.

A rusty and hoarse, "Who is it?" sounds from the other end.

"Me," I answer. After a second I add, "Peeta," because I don't want her to think I'm some freak from the Capitol here to take her away.

She opens the door slowly and stops it about halfway. "I know," she says. She's in day clothes, rumpled probably from tossing and turning all night. Her hair's pulled back in its usual braid - thin and still looking a little singed, but it's there.

She doesn't say anything else, so I guess I should explain myself. "I opened the window. And I heard…"

"Me. Screaming." She nods.

"I can't sleep either," I admit. "I was…"

"Thinking," she answers.

So have we become like Beetee and Wiress now? Broken people, appearing pathetic to the outside world no matter how smart and clever and full of potential? The thought more than creeps me out, and I can tell Katniss is thinking the same thing. "Yeah, that. Can I come in?"

She nods again and opens the door a bit wider, just allowing me to slip in. She leads the way up the stairs and I follow. A memory comes back to me - I think I carried her up these stairs before. It was before the Quell. She must have been injured or sick, because we never were affectionate unless necessary. Unless forced. I don't know how to ask without it sounding awkward, though…

"I've been up here before. Real or not real?"

"Real," she says. "I broke my ankle. Bedridden for a while."

I don't say anything back because there isn't a need to, and I think Katniss appreciates that.

The door to her room is open and she steps in. I hesitate at the door for a second.

"It's okay. Come in." She gets into the bed and scoots over to the right of it, leaving plenty of space for me. I get in beside her and we pull the comforter up. We don't say anything, and it's probably because we've both spoken to each other enough for a week already. I don't touch or hold her or anything of the sort and she doesn't try to, either. But soon enough her breathing becomes steady and I feel like I'm about to drift off as well.

Not being alone anymore is enough. When I finally close my eyes, I hear the trees rustling through the open window across from me. It's soothing.

And it's like that night, after night, after night.

* * *

><p><strong>It's up! I'm sorry it took a little longer than last time, it took me a while to get it out, but I hope you like it! I'm a little worried about Peeta's perception of Katniss and Katniss herself later on in the chapter...tell me what you thought of it, if you'd like. :-)<strong>

**And I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed SO MUCH! I'm so thrilled and surprised with the response I've gotten. Frosted tiger-lily cookies to you all.**


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